Chapter 3

Green and the hundred children. And instead of
saying "What a _funny_ game!" Nurse Frances merely inquired
whether the hundred children were girls or boys--an aspect of the
matter which Vernon had never thought of before. But he and Nurse
Frances decided that there were fifty of each, which seemed a very fair
arrangement.

If sometimes, off his guard, he played his make-believe games aloud,
Nurse Frances never seemed to notice or to think it unusual. She had
the same calm comfortableness of old Nurse about her, but she had
something that mattered far more to Vernon: the gift of answering
questions--and he knew, instinctively, that the answers were always
true. Sometimes she would say, "I don't know that myself," or, "You
must ask someone else. I'm not clever enough to tell you that." There
was no pretense of omniscience about her.

Sometimes, after tea, she would tell Vernon stories. The stories were
never the same two days running--one day they would be about naughty
little boys and girls, and the next day they would be about enchanted
princesses. Vernon liked the latter kind best. There was one in
particular that he loved, about a princess in a tower with golden hair
and a vagabond prince in a ragged green hat. The story ended up in a
forest, and it was possibly for that reason that Vernon liked it so
much.

Sometimes there would be an extra listener. Myra used to come in and
be with Vernon during the early afternoon when Nurse Frances had her
time off, but Vernon's father used sometimes to come in after tea when
the stories were going on. Little by little it became a habit. Walter
Deyre would sit in the shadows just behind Nurse Frances's chair, and
from there he would watch, not his child, but the story-teller. One
day Vernon saw his father's hand steal out and close gently over Nurse
Frances's wrist.

And then something happened which surprised him very much. Nurse
Frances got up from her chair.

"I'm afraid we must turn you out for this evening, Mr. Deyre," she said
quietly. "Vernon and I have things to do."

This astonished Vernon very much, because he couldn't think what those
things were. He was still more puzzled when his father got up also and
said in a low voice:

"I beg your pardon."

Nurse Frances bent her head a little, but remained standing. Her eyes
met Walter Deyre's steadily. He said quietly:

"Will you believe that I am really sorry, and let me come to-morrow?"

After that, in some way that Vernon could not have defined, his
father's manner was different. He no longer sat so near Nurse Frances.
He talked more to Vernon and occasionally they all three played a
game--usually Old Maid, for which Vernon had a wild passion. They were
happy evenings enjoyed by all three.

One day, when Nurse Frances was out of the room, Walter Deyre said
abruptly:

"Do you like that nurse of yours, Vernon?"

"Nurse Frances? I like her lots. Don't you, Father?"

"Yes," said Walter Deyre, "I do."

There was a sadness in his voice which Vernon felt.

"Is anything the matter, Father?"

"Nothing that can be put right. The horse that gets left at the post
never has much chance of making good--and the fact that it's the
horse's own fault doesn't make matters any better. But that's double
Dutch to you, old man. Anyway, enjoy your Nurse Frances while you've
got her. There aren't many of her sort knocking about."

And then Nurse Frances came back and they played Animal Grab.

But Walter Deyre's words had set Vernon's mind to work. He tackled
Nurse Frances next morning.

"Aren't you going to be here always?"

"No. Only till you get well--or nearly well."

"Won't you stay always? I'd like you to."

"But, you see, that's not my work. My work is to look after people who
are ill."

"Do you like doing that?"

"Yes, very much."

"Why?"

"Well, you see, everyone has some particular kind of work that they
like doing and that suits them."

"Mummy hasn't."

"Oh, yes, she has. Her work is to look after this big house and see
that everything goes right, and to take care of you and your father."

"Father was a soldier once. He told me that if ever there was a war
he'd go and be a soldier again."

"Are you very fond of your father, Vernon?"

"I love Mummy best, of course. Mummy says little boys always love their
mothers best. I like _being_ with Father, of course, but that's
different. I expect it's because he's a man. What shall I be when I
grow up, do you think? I want to be a sailor."

"Perhaps you'll write books."

"What about?"

Nurse Frances smiled a little.

"Perhaps about Mr. Green, and Poodle and Squirrel and Tree."

"But everyone would say that that was silly."

"Little boys wouldn't think so. And besides, when you grow up you will
have different people in your head--like Mr. Green and the children,
only grown-up people. And then you could write about them."

Vernon thought for a long time, then he shook his head.

"I think I'll be a soldier like Father. Most of the Deyres have been
soldiers, Mummy says. Of course you have to be very brave to be a
soldier, but I think I would be brave enough."

Nurse Frances was silent a moment. She was thinking of what Walter
Deyre had said of his small son:

"He's a plucky little chap--absolutely fearless. Doesn't know what fear
is! You should see him on his pony."

Yes, Vernon was fearless enough in one sense. He had the power of
endurance, too. He had borne the pain and discomfort of his broken leg
unusually well for so young a child.

But there was another kind of fear. She said slowly after a minute or
two:

"Tell me again how you fell off the wall that day."

She knew all about the Beast, and had been careful to display no
ridicule. She listened now to Vernon, and as he finished she said
gently:

"But you've known for quite a long time, haven't you, that it isn't a
real Beast? That it's only a thing made of wood and wires."

"I do _know_," said Vernon. "But I don't dream it like that. And
when I saw it in the garden coming at me----"

"You ran away--which was rather a pity, wasn't it? It would have been
much better to have stayed and _looked_. Then you'd have seen the
men, and would have known just what it was. It's always a good thing to
_look_. Then you can run away afterward if you still want to--but
you usually don't. And Vernon, I'll tell you something else."

"Yes?"

"Things are never so frightening in front of you as they are behind
you. Remember that. Anything seems frightening when it's behind your
back and you can't see it. That's why it's always better to turn and
face things--and then very often you find they are nothing at all."

Vernon said thoughtfully: "If I'd turned round I wouldn't have broken
my leg, would I?"

"No."

Vernon sighed.

"I don't mind having broken my leg very much. It has been very nice
having you to play with."

He thought Nurse Frances murmured "Poor child" under her breath, but
that, of course, was absurd. She said smiling:

"I've enjoyed it too. Some of my ill people don't like to play."

"You really do like playing, don't you?" said Vernon. "So does Mr.
Green."

He added rather stiffly, for he felt shy:

"Please don't go away very soon, will you?"

_4_

But as it happened, Nurse Frances went away much sooner than she
might have done. It all happened very suddenly, as things in Vernon's
experience always did.

It started very simply--something that Myra offered to do for Vernon
and that he said he would rather have done by Nurse Frances.

He was on crutches now for a short and painful time every day, enjoying
the novelty of it very much. He soon got tired, however, and was ready
to go back to bed. To-day his mother had suggested his doing so, saying
she would help him. But Vernon had been helped by her before. Those big
white hands of hers were strangely clumsy. They hurt where they meant
to help. He shrank from her well-meant efforts. He said he would wait
for Nurse Frances, who never hurt.

The words came out with the tactless honesty of children, and in a
minute Myra Deyre was at white heat.

Nurse Frances came in two or three minutes later to be received with a
flood of reproach.

Turning the boy against his own mother--cruel--wicked. They were all
alike--everyone was against her. She had nothing in the world but
Vernon and now he was being turned against her too.

So it went on--a ceaseless stream. Nurse Frances bore it patiently
enough, without surprise or rancour. Mrs. Deyre, she knew, was that
kind of woman. Scenes were a relief to her. And hard words, Nurse
Frances reflected with grim humour, can only harm if the utterer is
dear to you. She was sorry for Myra Deyre for she realized how much
real unhappiness and misery lay behind these hysterical outbursts.

It was an unfortunate moment for Walter Deyre to choose to enter
the nursery. For a moment or two he stood surprised, then he flushed
angrily.

"Really, Myra, I'm ashamed of you. You don't know what you're saying."

She turned on him furiously.

"I know what I'm saying well enough. And I know what you've been doing.
Slinking in here every day--I've seen you. Always making love to some
woman or other. Nursemaids, hospital nurses--it's all one to you."

"Myra--be quiet!"

He was really angry now. Myra Deyre felt a throb of fear. But she
hurled her last piece of invective.

"You're all alike, you hospital nurses. Flirting with other women's
husbands. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Before the innocent
child too--putting all sorts of things into his head. But you'll go out
of my house. Yes, you'll go right out--and I shall tell Dr. Coles what
I think of you."

"Would you mind continuing this edifying scene elsewhere?" Her
husband's voice was as she hated it most--cold and sneering. "Hardly
judicious in front of your innocent child, is it? I apologize, Nurse,
for what my wife has been saying. Come, Myra."

She went--beginning to cry--weakly frightened at what she had done. As
usual, she had said more than she meant.

"You're cruel," she sobbed. "Cruel. You'd like me to be dead. You hate
me."

She followed him out of the room. Nurse Frances put Vernon to bed. He
wanted to ask questions but she talked of a dog, a big St. Bernard that
she had had when she was a little girl, and he was so much interested
that he forgot everything else.

Much later that evening Vernon's father came to the nursery. He looked
white and ill. Nurse Frances rose and came to where he stood in the
doorway.

"I don't know what to say. How can I apologize--the things my wife
said----"

Nurse Frances replied in a quiet matter-of-fact voice:

"Oh! it's quite all right. I understand. I think, though, that I had
better go as soon as it can be arranged. My being here makes Mrs.
Deyre unhappy, and then she works herself up."

"If she knew how wide of the mark her wild accusations are. That she
should insult _you_----"

Nurse Frances laughed--not, perhaps, very convincingly.

"I always think it's absurd when people complain about being insulted,"
she said cheerfully. "Such a pompous word, isn't it? Please don't worry
or think I mind. You know, Mr. Deyre, your wife is----"

"Yes?"

Her voice changed. It was grave and sad.

"A very unhappy and lonely woman."

"Do you think that is entirely my fault?"

There was a pause. She lifted her eyes--those steady green eyes.

"Yes," she said, "I do."

He drew a long breath.

"No one else but you would have said that to me. You----I suppose
it's courage in you that I admire so much----your absolutely fearless
honesty. I'm sorry for Vernon that he should lose you before he need."

She said gravely: "Don't blame yourself for things you needn't. This
has not been your fault."

"Nurse Frances." It was Vernon, eagerly from bed. "I don't want you to
go away. Don't go away, please--not to-night."

"Of course not," said Nurse Frances. "We've got to talk to Dr. Coles
about it."

Nurse Frances left three days later. Vernon wept bitterly. He had lost
the first real friend he had ever had.

chapter 5

The years from five to nine remained somewhat dim in Vernon's memory.
Things changed--but so gradually as not to matter. Nurse did not
return to her reign over the nursery. Her mother had had a stroke and
was quite helpless and she was obliged to remain and look after her.

Instead, a Miss Robbins was installed as nursery governess. A creature
so extraordinarily colourless that Vernon could never afterward even
recall what she looked like. He must have become somewhat out of hand
under her régime for he was sent to school just after his eighth
birthday. On his first holidays he found his cousin Josephine installed.

On her few visits to Abbots Puissants, Nina had never brought her
small daughter with her. Indeed her visits had become rarer and rarer.
Vernon, knowing things without thinking about them, as children do, was
perfectly well aware of two facts. One, that his father did not like
Uncle Sydney but was always exceedingly polite to him. Two, that his
mother did not like Aunt Nina and did not mind showing it. Sometimes,
when Nina was sitting talking to Walter in the garden, Myra would join
them, and in the momentary pause that nearly always followed she would
say:

"I suppose I'd better go away again. I see I'm in the way. No, thank
you, Walter [this in answer to a protest, gently murmured], I can see
plainly enough when I'm not wanted."

She would move away, biting her lip, nervously clasping and unclasping
her hands, tears in her brown eyes. And, very quietly, Walter Deyre
would raise his eyebrows.

One day Nina broke out: "She's impossible! I can't speak to you for
ten minutes without an absurd scene. Walter, why did you do it? Why
_did_ you do it?"

Vernon remembered how his father had looked round, gazing up at the
house, then letting his eyes sweep far afield to where the ruins of the
old Abbey just showed.

"I cared for the place," he said slowly. "In the blood, I suppose. I
didn't want to let it go."

There had been a brief silence and then Nina had laughed--a queer short
laugh.

"We're not a very satisfactory family," she said. "We've made a pretty
good mess of things, you and I."

There was another pause and then his father had said: "Is it as bad as
that?"

Nina had drawn in her breath with a sharp hiss. She nodded.

"Pretty well. I don't think, Walter, that I can go on much longer. Fred
hates the sight of me. Oh! we behave very prettily in public--no one
would guess--but my God, when we're alone!"

"Yes, but my dear girl...."

And then, for a while, Vernon heard no more. Their voices were lowered,
his father seemed to be arguing with his aunt. Finally his voice rose
again.

"You can't take a mad step like that. It's not even as though you cared
for Anstey. You don't."

"I suppose not--but he's crazy about me."

His father said something that sounded like Social Ostriches. Nina
laughed again.

"That? We'd neither of us care."

"Anstey would in the end."

"Fred would divorce me--only too glad of the chance. Then we could
marry."

"Even then----"

"Walter on the social conventions! It has its humorous side!"

"Women and men are very different," said Vernon's father dryly.

"Oh! I know--I know. But anything's better than this everlasting
misery. Of course, at the bottom of it all is that I still care for
Fred--I always did. And he never cared for me."

"There's the kid," said Walter Deyre. "You can't go off and leave her?"

"Can't I? I'm not much of a mother, you know. As a matter of fact, I'd
take her with me. Fred wouldn't care. He hates her as much as he hates
me."

There was another pause, a long one this time. Then Nina said slowly:

"What a ghastly tangle human beings can get themselves into. And in
your case and mine, Walter, it's all our own fault. We're a nice
family! We bring bad luck to ourselves and to anyone we have anything
to do with."

Walter Deyre got up. He filled a pipe abstractedly, then moved slowly
away. For the first time Nina noticed Vernon.

"Hullo, child," she said. "I didn't see you were there. How much did
you understand of all that, I wonder?"

"I don't know," said Vernon vaguely, shifting from foot to foot.

Nina opened a chain bag, took out a tortoise-shell case, and extracted
a cigarette which she proceeded to light. Vernon watched her,
fascinated. He had never seen a woman smoke.

"What's the matter?" said Nina.

"Mummy says," said Vernon, "that no nice woman would ever smoke. She
said so to Miss Robbins."

"Oh! well," said Nina. She puffed out a cloud of smoke. "I expect she
was quite right. I'm not a nice woman, you see, Vernon."

Vernon looked at her, vaguely distressed.

"I think you're very pretty," he said rather shyly.

"That's not the same thing." Nina's smile widened. "Come here, Vernon."

He came obediently. Nina put her hands on his shoulders and looked him
over quizzically. He submitted patiently. He never minded being touched
by Aunt Nina. Her hands were light--not clutching like his mother's.

"Yes," said Nina, "you're a Deyre--very much so. Rough luck on Myra,
but there it is."

"What does that mean?" said Vernon.

"It means that you're like your father's family and not like your
mother's--worse luck for you."

"Why worse luck for me?"

"Because the Deyres, Vernon, are neither happy nor successful. And they
can't make good."

What funny things Aunt Nina said! She said them half laughingly, so
perhaps she didn't mean them. And yet, somehow, there was something in
them that, though he didn't understand, made him afraid.

"Would it be better," he said suddenly, "to be like Uncle Sydney?"

"Much better. Much much better."

Vernon considered.

"But then," he said slowly, "if I was like Uncle Sydney----"

He stopped, trying to get his thoughts into words.

"Yes, well?"

"If I was Uncle Sydney I should have to live at Larch Hurst--and not
here."

Larch Hurst was a stoutly built red brick villa near Birmingham where
Vernon had once been taken to stay with Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie.
It had three acres of superb pleasure grounds, a rose garden, a
pergola, a goldfish tank, and two excellently fitted bathrooms.

"And wouldn't you like that?" asked Nina, still watching him.

"No!" said Vernon. A great sigh broke from him, heaving his small
chest. "I want to live _here_--always, always, always!"

_2_

Soon after this something queer happened about Aunt Nina. His mother
began to speak of her and his father managed to hush her down with a
sideways glance at himself. He carried away only a couple of phrases:
"It's that poor child I'm so sorry for. You've only got to look at Nina
to see she's a Bad Lot and always will be."

The poor child, Vernon knew, was his cousin Josephine, whom he had
never seen, but to whom he sent presents at Christmas and duly
received others in return. He wondered why Josephine was "poor" and
why his mother was sorry for her, and also why Aunt Nina was a Bad
Lot--whatever that meant. He asked Miss Robbins, who got very pink and
told him he mustn't talk about "things like that." Things like what?
Vernon wondered.

However, he didn't think much more about it till four months later,
when the matter was mentioned once more. This time no one noticed
Vernon's presence--feelings were running too high for that. His mother
and father were in the middle of a vehement discussion. His mother, as
usual, was vociferous, excited. His father was very quiet.

"Disgraceful!" Myra was saying. "Within three months of running away
with one man to go off with another. It shows her up in her true light.
I always knew what she was like. Men, men, men, nothing but men!"

"You're welcome to any opinion you choose, Myra. That's not the point.
I knew perfectly how it would strike you."

"And anyone else too, I should think! I can't understand you, Walter.
You call yourself an old family and all that----"

"We are an old family," he put in quietly.

"I should have thought you'd have minded a bit about the honour of your
name. She's disgraced it--and if you were a real man you'd cast her off
utterly as she deserves."

"Traditional scene from the melodrama, in fact."

"You always sneer and laugh! Morals mean nothing to you--absolutely
nothing."

"At the minute, as I've been trying to make you understand, it's not
a question of morals. It's a question of my sister being destitute.
I must go out to Monte Carlo and see what can be done. I should have
thought anyone in their senses would see that."

"Thank you. You're not very polite, are you? And whose fault is it
she's destitute, I should like to know? She had a good husband----"

"No--not that."

"At any rate, he married her."

It was his father who flushed this time. He said, in a very low voice:

"I can't understand you, Myra. You're a good woman--a kind honourable
upright woman--and yet you can demean yourself to make a nasty mean
taunt like that."

"That's right! Abuse me! I'm used to it! You don't mind what you say to
me."

"That's not true. I try to be as courteous as I can."

"Yes. And that's partly why I hate you--you never do say right out.
Always polite and sneering--your tongue in your cheek. All this keeping
up appearances--why should one, I should like to know? Why should I
care if everyone in the house knows what I feel?"

"I've no doubt they do--thanks to the carrying power of your voice."

"There you are--sneering again. At any rate I've enjoyed telling you
what I think of your precious sister. Running away with one man, going
off with a second--and why can't the second man keep her, I should like
to know? Or is he tired of her already?"

"I've already told you, but you didn't listen. He's threatened with
galloping consumption--has had to throw up his job. He's no private
means."

"Ah! Nina brought her pigs to a bad market that time."

"There's one thing about Nina--she's never been actuated by motives of
gain. She's a fool, a damned fool, or she wouldn't have got herself
into this mess. But it's always her affections that run away with her
common sense. It's the deuce of a tangle. She won't touch a penny from
Fred. Anstey wants to make her an allowance--she won't hear of it. And,
mind you, I agree with her. There are things one can't do. But I've
certainly got to go and see to things. I'm sorry if it annoys you, but
there it is."

"You never do anything I want! You hate me! You do this on purpose to
make me miserable. But there's one thing. You don't bring this precious
sister of yours under this roof while I'm here. I'm not accustomed to
meeting that kind of woman. You understand?"

"You make your meaning almost offensively clear."

"If you bring her here, I go back to Birmingham."

There was a faint flicker in Walter Deyre's eyes, and suddenly Vernon
realized something that his mother did not. He had understood very
little of the actual words of the conversation though he had grasped
the essentials. Aunt Nina was ill or unhappy somewhere and Mummy was
angry about it. She had said that if Aunt Nina came to Abbots Puissants
she would go back to Uncle Sydney at Birmingham. She had meant that
as a threat--but Vernon knew that his father would be very pleased
if she did go back to Birmingham. He knew it quite certainly and
uncomprehendingly. It was like some of Miss Robbins's punishments, like
not speaking for half an hour. She thought you minded that as much as
not having jam for tea, and fortunately she had never discovered that
you didn't really mind it at all--in fact rather enjoyed it.

Walter Deyre walked up and down the room. Vernon watched him, puzzled.
That his father was fighting out a battle in his own mind, he knew. But
he couldn't understand what it was all about.

"Well?" said Myra.

She was rather beautiful just at that moment--a great big woman,
magnificently proportioned, her head thrown back and the sunlight
streaming in on her golden-red hair. A fit mate for some Viking
seafarer.

"I made you the mistress of this house, Myra," said Walter Deyre. "If
you object to my sister coming to it, naturally she will not come."

He moved toward the door. There he paused and looked back at her.
"If Llewellyn dies--which seems almost certain--Nina must try to get
some kind of a job. Then there will be the child to think of. Do your
objections apply to her?"

"Do you think I want a girl in my home who will turn out like her
mother?"

His father said quietly: "Yes or No would have been quite sufficient
answer."

He went out. Myra stood staring after him. Tears stood in her eyes and
began to fall. Vernon did not like tears. He edged toward the door--but
not in time.

"Darling, come to me."

He had to come. He was enfolded--hugged. Fragments of phrases
reiterated in his ears:

"You'll make up to me--you, my own boy. You shan't be like
them--horrid, sneering. You won't fail me--you'll never fail me--will
you? Swear it--my boy, my own boy!"

He knew it all so well. He said what was wanted of him--Yes and No in
the right places. How he hated the whole business! It always happened
so close to your ears.

That evening after tea Myra was in quite another mood. She was writing
a letter at her writing table and looked up gaily as Vernon entered.

"I'm writing to Daddy. Perhaps, very soon, your Aunt Nina and your
cousin Josephine will come to stay. Won't that be lovely?"

But they didn't come. Myra said to herself that really Walter was
incomprehensible. Just because she'd said a few things she really
didn't mean....

Vernon was not very surprised, somehow. He hadn't thought they would
come.

Aunt Nina had said she wasn't a nice woman--but she was very pretty.

chapter 6

If Vernon had been capable of summing up the events of the next few
years, he could best have done it in one word--scenes! Everlasting and
ever-recurring scenes.

And he began to notice a curious phenomenon. After each scene his
mother looked larger and his father looked smaller. Emotional storms of
reproach and invective exhilarated Myra mentally and physically. She
emerged from them refreshed; soothed--full of good will toward all the
world.

With Walter Deyre it was the opposite. He withdrew into himself, every
sensitive fibre in his nature shrinking from the onslaught. The faint
polite sarcasm that was his weapon of defence never failed to goad his
wife to the utmost fury. His quiet weary self-control exasperated her
as nothing else could have done.

Not that she was lacking for very real grounds of complaint. Walter
Deyre spent less and less time at Abbots Puissants. When he did return
his eyes had baggy pouches under them and his hand shook. He took
little notice of Vernon, and yet the child was always conscious of an
underlying sympathy. It was tacitly understood that Walter should not
"interfere" with the child. A mother was the person who should have the
say. Apart from supervising the boy's riding, Walter stood aside. Not
to do so would have roused fresh matter for discussion and reproach.
He was ready to admit that Myra had all the virtues and was a most
careful and attentive mother.

And yet he sometimes had the feeling that he could give the boy
something that she could not. The trouble was that they were both
shy of each other. To neither of them was it easy to express his
feelings--a thing Myra would have found incomprehensible. They remained
gravely polite to each other.

But when a scene was in progress Vernon was full of silent sympathy. He
knew exactly how his father was feeling--knew how that loud angry voice
hurt the ears and the head. He knew, of course, that Mummy must be
right--Mummy was always right, that was an article of belief not to be
questioned--but all the same, he was unconsciously on his father's side.

Things went from bad to worse--came to a crisis. Mummy remained
locked in her room for two days--servants whispered delightedly in
corners--and Uncle Sydney arrived on the scene to see what he could do.

Uncle Sydney undoubtedly had a soothing influence over Myra. He walked
up and down the room, jingling his money as of old, and looking stouter
and more rubicund than ever.

Myra poured out her woes.

"Yes, yes, I know," said Uncle Sydney, jingling hard. "I know, my dear
girl. I'm not saying you haven't had a lot to put up with. You have.
Nobody knows that better than I do.